


Genius

by YYF96



Category: South Park
Genre: Blood and Injury, Bullying, Friendship, Gen, Self-Harm, but could be taken as shipping, in a roundabout way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 18:32:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4532751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YYF96/pseuds/YYF96
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ike is under a lot of stress. There's too many expectations he can't hold up. What's a boy to do?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Genius

Genius. What a word. So uplifting, so full of pride. So full of shit. The word is subjective, isn't it? Ike was a genius when it came to art and literature and science and politics, but not so much math. He wasn't good at being Jewish. He was socially awkward and never knew what to say, unlike his big brother. Ike had nothing to say when people made fun of his exceptional grades or his age or his thick glasses or his perfectly organized school supplies. Or his face. His beady black eyes, his freakishly wide mouth, his unnaturally sharp teeth, his weird long tongue. His stupid accent. His annoying laugh. Ike got depressed over it sometimes. Who wouldn't? Even his adoptive mother hated his kind. Everywhere he turned, he was being laughed at. Sometimes people who had never seen a Canadian up close would steer their children far away from him. It made him bitter.

  
With his peers, he was subject to endless ridicule and scorn. With adults, it was endless praise and expectations. One would think he liked being complimented so much, but he despised it even more than being insulted and stepped on. It made him feel inhuman. He wasn't treated like a person. Rather, he was treated as if he were perfect and otherworldly. If he made even the smallest mistake, no one would leave him alone. He would never be allowed to forget about it. If he tried to say that he's only human so he would naturally make mistakes sometimes, he'd hear nothing but "But you're _better_ than that!" or "But you're _smarter_ than that!" Honestly, being put on a pedestal was so much more exhausting than being spit on. Ike thought it might've been easier to be completely sub-human rather than a mix of sub-human and superhuman.

  
What was he going to do about it? He had no way to relieve stress, especially since he wasn't allowed to play sports. He tried exercising a lot but was forced to stop that too since he pulled a muscle a few times. Smoking or drinking would damage his health and no one would want to fuck someone like him. Masturbating can only get you so far. It wasn't until he began high school that he even considered self harm. He immediately discarded it just like the others. He didn't want to do anything that would hurt him, including smoking, drinking, burning, cutting, or whatever else he might've thought up.

  
Ike could see why self harm would work as a stress reliever. When you're hurt, your body releases hormones that gives you a high. Hurting yourself would basically force those hormones to distract you, at least for a little while. But why would anyone want to scar their body forever like that? Ike wanted to die of age with a relatively clean body. He always has. He would just have to deal with bottling up his stress and emotions. It was expected of him.

  
Still, with high school came piles upon piles of stress. He didn't know it could get worse, but it did. Teachers had always expected nothing less than perfect from him, but he could no longer keep up AND join five after-school clubs like his mother wanted to. His grades slipped a little, but it wasn't a big deal until he got his first B. His teacher and father were disappointed and his mother screamed and cried about what an awful mother she was and how could she let this happen. You know, basic guilt tripping stuff. Ike could no longer handle the load.

  
He probably would've been fine if the guilt-tripping hadn't worked. He recognized what it was, but his confidence and self-esteem lowered drastically anyway. _I could've done better. I could've handled it. I let myself slip. I'm a worthless excuse for a son. I'm just a disappointment.'_ He fed himself lies and began to feel undeserving of what he had. Some nights he slept on the floor beside his bed because he felt like he didn't deserve the warmth and comfort it gave him. He would wake up aching all over, but he would feel a little more relaxed. Ike sometimes didn't eat when he was hungry, instead giving his food to his best friends, Filmore and Flora. They thought he was just being generous. Ike didn't protest the next time someone pushed him. Filmore pulled the bully away in time so that Ike only had a few bruises, nothing severe. Flora worried over him and gave him band-aids even though he only had one injury that showed any signs at all of bleeding. Ike felt undeserving of his friends, but couldn't bring himself to tell them to go away. He was too selfish for that.

  
Getting hit made Ike feel... different. Not exactly _good_ but... relieved maybe? A weird sort of glee, to be sure. He wanted more, to be sure that it wasn't a fluke.

  
There was a guy in his class that rarely showed up. He wore all black, had black hair covering one of his eyes, black eyeliner, and dark purple lipstick that looked black until you squinted. He glared at everyone and exclusively hung around three older kids who also wore all black. Rumor had it that he stabbed a kid once for calling him "lady". Several different people had cigarette burns after trying to talk to him for one reason or another. Naturally, Ike thought talking to this guy would be the easiest route to getting hurt.

  
Ike approached him as soon as the bell to leave rang on a day he was in class. The guy had immediately lit a cigarette despite being scolded by the teacher, simply flipping her off. "Hey, miss, mind if I walk with y-" Ike yelped as the burning cigarette pressed against his hand.

  
"I'm a fucking dude, and no. You can't walk with me." Ike cradled his hand and watched as the other boy left, leaving soon after him. He felt the same as he did before, when he was hit by that bully. Perhaps it wasn't a fluke, but Ike just had to be sure.  
He went out of his way to bother the goth kid almost every day, walking away with at least one burn every single time. Then again, what's a burn? Maybe it didn't mean anything. Ike decided to try something more serious.

  
Wendy Testaburger was not a force to be fucked with. Ike knew this. She was very opinionated and very strong. Naturally, he had to fuck with her. She was visiting the school as a guest speaker for feminism. He challenged her on every point with mocking undertones, even on points he agreed with. He saw her get more and more enraged as her speech went on, but she managed to keep her cool until the end of the speech. He caught her outside and spoke with more thinly veiled belligerence, openly taunting her. She snapped and beat the everloving shit out of a 12-year old. She seemed immediately regretful and left before the ambulance was even called.

  
His family was pissed when they found out what happened. Not at Wendy, but at Ike. His mother scolded him for his "disrespectful views" and his brother scolded him for daring to disagree with Wendy. Ike ignored them. He was feeling better than he had in almost a year.

  
Ike began going out of his way to piss off his bullies. He was almost constantly covered in cuts and bruises. His family stopped worrying, thinking they weren't fresh injuries or perhaps just getting used to them. He was only sent to the hospital once or twice, but even the staff there wasn't worried about him. Ike irritated his wounds a little here and there. He wondered if he was addicted to the feelings pain gave him. More. He needed more.

  
There was a day when Ike didn't leave once the goth kid burned him. Not once, twice, or even five times in the same visit. He made a comment about his "emo hair" and suddenly there was a knife in his side. The goth kids left as soon as the blade was wiped onto Ike's shirt and pocketed. It was Filmore who called the ambulance that time.

  
Ike learned at the hospital that the knife barely missed anything major. He was stabbed _carefully_ so that he wasn't actually injured too much. He decided he liked the sharp feeling of being stabbed more than anything else and completely forgot about his old wish to have a somewhat clean body.  Every once in a while, he would taunt the youngest goth into stabbing him. Not too often. Not too often, or he might get suspicious and figure him out. Then who would stab him? Ike wasn't about to stab _himself_.

  
The goth kid burned him less. It took more and more before he would hurt Ike. Was he getting used to him? Was he starting to like and respect him? That wouldn't be any good. Ike had to step up his game. The next time he aimed to be stabbed, he went all out. He made fun of his hair, his makeup, his clothes, his attitude, and insinuated that his parents didn't love him. This time, the pain felt a lot different. Ike fell to his knees and trembled violently, holding his stomach. The goths looked surprised. The youngest looked scared. Ike laughed a little at the looks on their faces, wiping his eyes. He wiped and wiped but his vision wasn't clearing up. He tasted blood. He was covered in it. The sounds of other people screaming grew muffled and his vision went completely black. He didn't feel his body hit the ground. He guessed he hit the point where he hurt so badly that he didn't feel it at all.

  
"Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_." Firkle knelt beside Ike and quickly pulled off the younger boy's jacket, ripping up the arms of it and wrapping the fabric around his midsection tightly in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. He stared in shock at the bruises, cuts, and scars littering Ike's body. Scars from stabbing, scars from burning. Did Firkle cause all of those? He patted Ike's cheek roughly and leaned in, feeling Ike's unsteady breath on his face. Even Firkle wanted to throw up at the intense stench of blood. One of Ike's friends- Filbert? Seymore?- ran up and knelt beside Ike as well, slipping in the crimson puddle around him, phone already in hand. He had a tight grip on Ike's hand as he spoke to the operator, watching Ike's skin grow more and more pale. Firkle felt nauseous and closed his eyes tightly. This wasn't happening. Not Ike. Anyone but him. Ike was funny, a nice guy, even when he was trying to annoy or insult someone. Firkle didn't mean to do this. It was a slip-up. He opened his eyes and watched the tears streaming down Ike's friend's face. His hand was more around Ike's wrist now and he muttered the words "no" and "please" under his breath again and again. One hell of a slip-up.

 

Ike felt groggy as all hell when he first woke up. He ached. He hurt badly. He liked it, but he didn't know why at the moment. He was tired. His eyes slid open slowly but it took a while for his vision to return to him. The hospital was a familiar sight by now. So were empty bedside seats. He turned his head and paused. There was never a card on the table before. He strained a bit to reach it, but happily looked it over. It was homemade, just a piece of black construction paper folded in half. There was nothing on the front, but inside it simply said, "Sorry for almost killing you -Firkle" in white colored pencil. Ike smiled and laughed a little, putting the card back on the table. He settled back down and yawned, still feeling tired. Well, no harm in going back to sleep. At least it passed the time.

  
When he woke up again, he heard voices talking quietly. Probably a couple of nurses. He opened his eyes and furrowed his brows with confusion. "Uh, mom? Dad? Kyle?" Immediately his mother began blubbering and hugging him, only allowing Gerald to pull her away after Ike complained about being unable to breathe. Ike couldn't understand a word she was saying. Gerald gently led her out of the room until she could calm down enough to speak, leaving Kyle and Ike alone. Ike played with his sheets and stared at the closed door. "I thought you were busy studying for finals at college."

  
"I came as soon as I heard how serious it was." There was another awkward silence until a sniffle came from Kyle's direction. He sat beside his little brother and gently held his hand, shaking a little. "I almost didn't get to see you alive again. On my way here, they lost you twice." His free hand rubbed at his face and he sighed shakily. "Ike... I love you. I love you very much. I thought... I thought the next time I would see you was going to be at your funeral. That's fucked up. You're only 13. I never thought I'd have to worry about you dying before me, but I did." Kyle sighed again and rubbed Ike's hand. Ike was silent and Kyle didn't say any more. It was soon after that Sheila and Gerald returned to faun over their youngest son. Ike didn't have the energy to smile much.  
A few hours into their visit, Firkle entered the room. There was a long, awkward silence before Ike asked his family to leave for a little while. They left for the cafeteria, looking at Firkle strangely. They had no idea who this person was, but he didn't look very nice.

  
Firkle closed the door behind them and sat down, getting comfortable. The silence grew more awkward and Firkle began tapping his foot. "Listen, I... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to... to do that."

  
"I know." Ike laughed a little. "You never meant to hurt me very badly." Firkle nodded and leaned forward, hugging his knees.

  
"Did you piss me off on purpose?" Ike seemed confused and Firkle chewed his lip. "You were covered in injuries. You've been pissing a lot of people off. Why is that?"

  
"No, and it's none of your business," Ike grumbled, averting his gaze. Firkle glanced up at him and his expression softened.

  
"Ike... You're good enough." He set his hand on the younger boy's comfortingly. "I don't know your story and I don't know your reasons, but you're good enough. You're more than good enough. Don't let yourself think you're not." Ike's fists clenched around the bedsheets and he took a deep breath. He spilled and told Firkle everything. Instead of judging him or calling him weird, Firkle nodded, seeming to somewhat understand. That alone made Ike feel better than any stab wound.

  
"Look, Ike. Don't do this again. It isn't worth it. If you feel bad again, talk to me."

  
"... Yeah. I will. Thanks." He ached. He hurt badly. He didn't like it anymore. He wanted it to stop.


End file.
